


You build me up

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fix-It, Getting Together, John-centric, M/M, POV John Watson, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Smut, ansgt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realises he’s in love a Sunday morning.</p><p>Sherlock is already sitting at the kitchen table when John comes downstairs, his hair ruffled and the newspaper in front of him. He’s murmuring something as he reads, but John can’t understand a single word.</p><p>John pours his tea, sits in front of him and drinks slowly.</p><p>This, right now. That’s what John wants for the rest of his life.</p><p>~ ~</p><p>John accepts the fact that Sherlock will never return his feelings the very same day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You build me up

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Heather](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) for her job as a beta !  
> [My Tumblr](http://letthechoirsing.tumblr.com/)

And I crash and I break down  
Your words in my head, knives in my heart  
You build me up and then I fall apart  
**Only Human - Christina Perry**

_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over._

~ ~

He really shouldn’t be so angry at Ella. She’s only trying to help him and John is certain she just wishes she could scratch his name from her agenda and stop taking new appointments.

Bill had assured him how much the therapy had helped with the nightmares and all the things a soldier can never tell. Not entirely. John wants nothing more but to believe him, truly.

But there’s a thorn in John’s throat. Sometimes he feels the confessions on the edge of his tongue, ready to be finally shared, but he only needs to open his mouth for them to vanish.

John was never good with words. His mother had told him many times how much easier life would be for him if he would just open up more to others. Even just to say how his day had been, the way Harry did over every shared dinner while John listened absently.

Apparently John’s father wasn’t much of a talker, either. But then, he had promised himself not to believe anything people said about his father.

“I really think keeping a blog can help you, John. Writing will do you good, I promise.”

Ella is standing in the doorway, looking at John with such concern that John wants to scream. He wants to look at her in the eye and tell her about all the things he did back there. The men he saved, the children he played with, the sunsets he watched.

John needs her to realise he lived.

The words are caught in his throat.

~ ~

A young girl waits in front of him at Tesco. She’s holding her mother’s hand but her big blue eyes are fixed on John. She has been looking at him since he joined the cashier’s queue. John smiles lightly, and the girl turns to hide in her mother’s skirt. He doesn’t want to imagine what his smile must have look like. She peeks at him again, and this time her eyes land on John’s cane. She stares at it for a long moment, looking up quickly at John’s face before tugging at her mother’s hand.

“Mom, why does the man have a cane?”

John is not sure what is worse.

The girl’s questioning eyes as she looks back at him, or the woman’s embarrassed smile as she ignores her daughter question.

~ ~

It takes a minute for John to recognize Mike Stamford. He smiles at his old friend’s jokes, but actually thinks Mike has put on so much weight, John may not have recognized him if Mike hadn’t called his name.

Mike laughs, telling him about all the things he’s been up to since their years at Uni and John regrets agreeing to have coffee after only two minutes of walking together. He listens to Mike’s ramblings but he’s already trying to find a way to cut this meeting short. He can’t stand all the memories Mike is unconsciously digging up.

John doesn’t want to remember Susan Callis from Chemistry class, nor does he want to laugh as Mike reminds him of the time she kissed him in the middle of a lecture. John hasn’t thought of Susan’s soft lips against his for ages, remembering it now is not going to help.

Naturally, Mike waits until they’re sitting before asking about the war.

John recognizes the eternal tenderness of his friend, never broaching a subject until he’s certain it’s the right time. It would have been rude not to ask about the war, and Mike knows it. John had never hidden, back when they had been sitting next to each other in those classes, how much he longed for his deployment. Mike knows him too well, John realises sadly, as he inquires about his return to London. As usual, John doesn’t linger on the details. People tend to ask about how it felt to be shot. Did John cry? Did he panic? Did he think he was going to die?

John hates how all those questions awaken the tremble in his hand. But then, Mike doesn’t seem to be taken aback by John’s direct, and almost bitter, answer.

When he thinks about it now, John realises he should have known what Mike’s smile was hiding.

~ ~

Harry told him one day that life gives you unique chances, moments you need to recognize and catch right away. John doesn’t remember if his big sister was sober at the time, the days all looked the same back then. But he can still see Harry’s eyes as she grabbed John’s arm, explaining with a shaking voice how John needs to be careful and not let his chance pass.

“You can live with your scars John, but not with your regrets.”

~ ~

_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

~ ~

John isn’t sure what he had been expecting.

Sherlock Holmes is an important man, a DI presence just proved it. Surely the police don’t ask for an amateur’s help, not when the cases the DI talked about had been on every newspaper’s front page for weeks now. Whatever Sherlock is doing for a living, John is far beneath it.

It doesn’t matter how much Sherlock’s deductions the day before had affected John, making him feel naked and yet, so important. Somehow he had managed to hold Sherlock Holmes’ attention for about three minutes. Just enough to get an address and a name, John thinks bitterly. But apparently not enough to follow Sherlock down the stairs.

John takes a calming breath as Sherlock disappears, running after the DI with a radiant smile. He feels the overwhelming urge to punch something.

~ ~

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, God, yes!”

~ ~

John tries to control his breathing, avoiding a car as he crosses the street, and realises that his lungs are burning.

He can’t breathe properly, and his entire body feels too heavy when he jumps over a hole in the pavement.

He laughs, and increases his speed.

He had almost forgotten how much he loves to run.

~ ~

The gun is cold in John’s steady hand.

Sherlock is looking down at the body in the other building. John is certain his shot will have killed the man. It won’t take much longer for the police to arrive, and he needs to be long gone when they do. He puts the gun under his shirt and heads for the stairs.

He races down the steps at full speed, jumping the last two before looking around the still quiet street. As he walks out of the building, he is already cleaning his hand with his shirt. He needs to find some water and eliminate as much gunpowder as he can.

He feels his heart pounding in his ears. His entire body is on alert, his eyes automatically looking for any possible danger. He hears the police cars long before he sees them. Lestrade gets out first, running for the building, the correct one. John leans back against the nearest wall, pacing his breathing. He had developed a ritual in Afghanistan, a way of calming down and soon most of his men were imitating him after a particularly difficult day.

Later, John watches as Sherlock stands up, a ridiculous orange blanket around his shoulders and his eyes seeing right through John.

“Nice shot.”

He can’t seem to stop smiling.

~ ~

When he goes to sleep that night, with Sherlock still pacing downstairs and the faint smell of Chinese food lingering in the kitchen, John takes a few seconds to accept the simple fact that this is all real.

221B Baker Street is real. Its warm sitting room is real. The experiments in the fridge are real. Mrs. Hudson, the two chairs facing each other, the pack of files and notes on the table. All of it, part of John’s new home. 

The last two days are real. John met this strange, brilliant madman and followed him, running into danger without a second of hesitation. The man John just killed was real. 

Sherlock Holmes is real. He’s more than real. He’s extraordinary, rude and actually unaware of correct social behaviors, but John is amazed. He lies in his new bed, stares at the ceiling and listens. He falls asleep to the sound of bangs and mumbling coming from downstairs.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him is like dealing with a tornado every second of every day. And yet, Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him._

~ ~

“You’ve reached John, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If you’re calling for a case, go to my blog and delete this number. I’m not even sure how you managed to get it in the first place. And if it’s you, Sherlock, stop calling! If I don’t answer it means I’m actually busy!”

~ ~

“Sherlock, why is the milk blue?”

“Oh, an experiment of mine.”

“And you couldn’t go buy yourself a brick of milk instead of experimenting on the one we actually drink?”

“Why would I buy milk when I know there is some that is perfectly usable in the fridge?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why am I keeping milk in our fridge?”

“John, this conversation is getting quite boring.”

“And surely we can’t let that happen!”

“I’m glad we agree.”

~ ~

John ground the suspect to the floor, the weight of his body forcing the man to fall. The suspect tries to escape his grip and with a punch to John’s face he manages to stand up. John curses and gets to his feet and runs after him. Sherlock is already gone, probably chasing after the suspect’s accomplice. The one Sherlock hadn’t anticipated when they entered the building.

John rolls on the floor when the suspect hits him in the legs. He hears the familiar sound of a knife opening. All of his senses are on alert as he stands up again. He avoids a first attack, and gets ready to catch the man’s arm when he reaches for John a second time. John breaks the man’s wrist and the suspect drops the knife, a cry of pain escaping him. John throws him back on the floor, pinning him with his leg. He hears the police car down the street.

He lets out a deep breath, his heart beating furiously.

He’s alive.

He fucking feels immortal right now.

~ ~

“Oh, you’re cooking diner.”

Sherlock sounds almost surprised and John realises it’s been too long since they had a proper meal. He shrugs and listens as Sherlock sits down behind him, probably already engrossed in some new case. He tastes the sauce, adds more salt and puts back the lid.

“What are you looking at?”

“Lestrade called and gave me this.” John leans against him, peeking above Sherlock’s shoulder. “New case, seems interesting.”

“What happened?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the files but he begins to explain the details of the case. John doesn’t move, the heat radiating from Sherlock’s back warming his chest. He listens, asks more questions and smiles as Sherlock gets closer and closer to solving it. When his head snaps up, hitting his chin, Sherlock doesn’t bother apologizing. He gets up, turns to face John and smiles down at him.

“Forget about diner, we have a garage to break into.”

John turns off the gas cooker quickly and goes to get his coat. They’ll have time to eat later.

~ ~

John sits in his chair and lets out a contented sigh. He closes his eyes for a second before taking a sip of his tea. He can hear Sherlock sitting before him and he opens his eyes again, not missing Sherlock’s knowing smile.

John shakes his head. He doesn’t care what Sherlock is thinking, if he’s mocking his new jumper or the way John seems to enjoy the most pedestrian things. He doesn’t care. 

Right now, John is happy.

~ ~

10:43 AM: It was the niece. SH

10:54 AM: What are you talking about?

10:55 AM: She tried to break into her uncle’s flat and found him in bed with her mother. SH

10:57 AM: I’m guessing this is a case. I’m working, you’ll tell me about it later, ok?

10:59 AM: I though you were in your bedroom. SH

11:00 AM: At eleven in the morning? On a monday? And you were texting me instead of coming up?

11:02 AM: I didn’t want to invade your privacy. Isn’t that what you asked? SH

11:07 AM: I did. Didn’t though you were listening!

11:08 AM: I was. SH

11:09 AM: A patient just came in, I’ll be home for lunch.You can explain the case to me then?

11:10 AM: Pick up some milk on the way back. I used ours, again. SH

~ ~

John still can’t talk about the things that matter with Sherlock.

But that’s alright.

No one understands John’s silence the way Sherlock does.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him is like dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

~ ~

John realises he’s in love a Sunday morning.

Sherlock is already sitting at the kitchen table when John comes downstairs, his hair ruffled and the newspaper in front of him. He’s murmuring something as he reads, but John can’t understand a single word.

John pours his tea, sits in front of him and drinks slowly.

This, right now. That’s what John wants for the rest of his life.

~ ~

John accepts the fact that Sherlock will never return his feelings the very same day.

~ ~

Knowing he’s in love doesn’t alter a lot of things. John still gets up every day and gets ready for work. He still gets text messages and urgent calls in the middle of day and doesn’t hesitate for a second before running after Sherlock. He still comes home every night, tired and ready for a quiet evening, but gladly accepts any last minute case Sherlock offers him.

But if John is being honest with himself, coming to terms with his feelings towards Sherlock does change some little moments of his day. He’s more aware of the space between them, making sure not to lean too close when they stand next to each other. He notices the touches, most of them not necessary but John doesn't stop, doesn't want to stop. He’s not sure he could anyway. He also averts his eyes more often and cuts himself off when he’s about to let out more than he should.

Most of all, he goes to bed every night and wonders what would happen if he talked to Sherlock. Would he follow John to his bedroom, change into pajamas and lie beside him? Would he kiss John’s neck tenderly, murmuring against his skin and press their bodies together? Would John fall asleep, warm and pliant, with the promise of waking up next to Sherlock in the morning?

~ ~

Denying they’re a couple has become a habit now.

John has stopped counting the number of people who think they’re together, and he calmly corrects them. He knows he needs to stay in control, he can’t let Sherlock deduce how much all these questions are getting to him. He smiles and nods and shakes his head and never loses his temper.

~ ~

Some days, the need to touch Sherlock overwhelms John.

He wants to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s back when they climb up the stairs or rest his head against Sherlock’s shoulder during cab rides.

He craves for long cuddle on the sofa, Sherlock’s body close to him and their legs so tangled that John won’t be sure where his own body ends, and where Sherlock’s begins.

HE dreams of Sherlock’s lips on his body, leaving burning kisses all over him. In those dreams, John is desperate for more. He’s begging for more contact, more skin, more everything. John wakes up panting, the ghost of Sherlock’s fingers and mouth haunting him.

Some nights, the need to touch Sherlock consumes John entirely.

~ ~

John always knew he was a jealous man. Even before the army, he used to stand too close to his partners. It was always a simple gesture, a possessive hand or a glare. But John managed to keep it under control, never letting it explode.

Sherlock, as usual, upsets all of his patterns.

He despises the way clients grab Sherlock’s arms when they’re desperate.

He hates all the suspect’s confessions whispered in Sherlock’s ears.

He can’t bear to watch Sherlock smiling to anyone else but him.

Then Irene Adler enters, nearly destroying all of his efforts

John goes to sleep every night and tosses and turns in his bed for endless hours. He can’t close his eyes, he can’t even think properly. He listens for any sign that Sherlock might leave the flat. Does he wait for John to go to the clinic? And then, does The Woman lie naked in Sherlock’s bed, making him beg for release?

~ ~

_“Are you jealous?”_

_“We’re not a couple.”_

_“Yes you are.”_

Sometimes, John doesn’t have the strength to lie.

~ ~

Some days the weight of all the unsaid words and hidden desires is too heavy for John’s shoulders. So he stays in his bed and concentrates on his breathing. He thinks of his life, at this very moment. He thinks about Sherlock, waiting downstairs for a call from Lestrade. He thinks of the case they just solved and the knife that had almost breached Sherlock’s skin. He thinks of Lestrade’s lecturing and Sherlock’s smile as they listened absently. He thinks of all of the things Sherlock gives him every single day, and he breathes out slowly.

In the end, John is certain of one simple thing. Sherlock is one of those people you can never actually reach. But it doesn’t matter. John lives a life he never dared to dream of. As long as Sherlock stays right here, John can go on.

~ ~

John grabs Sherlock’s coat, both of their wrists locked together above their head.

“We need to coordinate.”

John is breathing rapidly, and he can feel Sherlock’s own panting breaths against his face. Sherlock nods, their fingers brushing above the fence.

It could be so easy, John thinks.

He only needs to lean in, tug on Sherlock’s coat, and their lips would meet halfway. Would Sherlock’s mouth be cold against his, the brisk air of London surrounding them? Or would it be warm, burning John’s own lips as they kiss?

How would Sherlock react? Would he catch John’s lips between his teeth and tease John until he surrenders? Or would it be so tender that John’s legs would tremble and give up on him?

Sherlock is too close. John forgets how to breathe properly.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him is like dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Months later, as John watches Sherlock jump, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all._

~ ~

The moment he can’t feel Sherlock’s pulse, John’s world comes crashing down on the cold and dirty pavement.

~ ~

“Sir, you can’t stay here.”

Sherlock is laughing, his head thrown back on his chair. His laughter is filling the room, and John knows he will never get used to witnessing such a stunning moment.

“Sir, we need to take him.”

Sherlock is running after a murderer in a abandoned house. He turns to look at John, probably making sure he’s following. John smirks, ignoring the way his lungs are burning and the pain in his leg. Sherlock smiles, John runs faster.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Sherlock is staring at him, his mouth half open. John doesn’t move, he looks back with all the self-assurance he’s got. He won’t be the one who breaks down. Sherlock hesitates, turns around and walks away. John figures they have all the time they need to get there, together.

“Sir? Sir?”

Sherlock is not moving, his eyes staring at the sky. For once, he doesn’t seem to be disturbed by the people around him, he simply stays still. The blood is spreading down the pavement.

~ ~

“God, no.”

~ ~

“You can’t go on like this John.”

Mycroft is looking at him from the doorway. He’s wearing the same old grey suit, his umbrella never too far away. He’s come to see John quite an awful lot of times since Sherlock jumped. John hopes it’s because he’s feeling guilty.

“What you’re doing is dangerous, and most of all, useless.”

John ignores him and writes down the information he learned overnight. He talked to a man who confirmed Sherlock had been underground a lot lately. When John is satisfied with what he wrote, he pins the paper on the wall, just above the sofa. He saw Sherlock do the same so many times, it almost feels as if nothing had changed.

“John, listen to me.”

John stops abruptly, looking blankly at Mycroft. That must be the voice Mycroft uses when he asks for silence during meetings. It makes John wants to laugh.

“I’m going to find him, Mycroft. No matter what you came here to say.”

“He’s dead, John.”

John shakes his head, and looks back at the wall. In the last four days he managed to infiltrate Sherlock’s homeless network and talk to most of them. He has gathered a lot of information now, and he knows he’s getting close.

“John –”

“Leave, Mycroft.”

John doesn’t glance at him. The urge to punch Mycroft has been taunting him for far too long now.

“You know he wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

“I said leave!”

Mycroft sighs, staring at John for a long moment before turning back to the stairs.

John puts all of his attention back on the wall. Sherlock cannot be dead, and he is going to find him.

~ ~

“You’ve reached John, leave a message.”

~ ~

John wishes Sherlock had left a real note, a written one.

At least he would have been able to throw it away, tear it down, burn it.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him is like dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Month later, as John watches Sherlock falling, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all. But in the end, John survive, or at least, he tells people he does._

~ ~

“Doctor Watson, I need to gather your files.”

“I already gave them to Doctor Hersh earlier.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s my first day here.”

“That’s alright, I always give my files to him directly.”

“Oh, that means I won’t have to come see you every day.”

She’s flirting with him. John lets go of the file he’s reading and takes a closer look at the nurse. How long has it been since he last dated someone?

Isn’t it time now?

“By the way, I’m Mary.”

~ ~

Mary is not what John had expected.

She doesn’t ask anything when John doesn’t talk for an entire day. She waits patiently when he wakes up screaming Sherlock’s name, her hands caressing John’s back slowly.

She listens calmly when he finally talks about his life with Sherlock, a year after their first date. She doesn’t seem to be upset. She only asks a couple of questions about John’s feelings back then. For the first time in years, John doesn’t lie.

~ ~

One day, John realises he hasn’t been to Sherlock’s grave for two months.

The realization leaves him feeling nothing but empty.

~ ~

John keeps his gun hidden in his wardrobe. He’s not sure if Mary knows about it. He doesn’t want her to realise that even after all this time, he is still waiting.

~ ~

Strangely, John’s life goes on.

He wakes up every morning and gets ready for work. Mary is here now, making breakfast or showering, and John smiles and kisses her good morning. He uses his bicycle to go to work. He says he needs to lose weight, and Mary laughs. He doesn’t tell her that he hates taking his car. 

He examines, stitches up and listens to his patients’ complain all day. He forces himself not to look too often at the clock. He waits for the end of his shift and takes his time on his way back home. He goes through London, finding his way between cars and buses and ignores the weight in his stomach as he approaches the suburbs. Mary is here. They eat, watch TV or read and, some evenings, have sex. 

Some days, he falls asleep quickly.

Some days, he lies awake for hours. He thinks of cabs, crowded streets, and calls and texts interrupting his work. He thinks of dark curls, long coats and chases around London. John lies awake and tries, _tries really hard_ , not to hate his life.

~ ~

“It’s been a long time!”

Greg smiles, a sad smile that turns John’s stomach.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy I guess.”

Greg nods, his drink almost finished.

“So, what have you been up to lately?”

“Well, I just bought an engagement ring this morning.”

Greg’s head snaps up, his eyes widening as he stares at John. He doesn’t say anything, his mouth half open.

“That’s-” Greg begins, but doesn’t finish as he looks down at his drink again.

“Yes.”

John doesn’t say more, he doesn’t need to.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him means dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures hiss leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Months later, as John watches Sherlock falling, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all. But in the end, John survive, or at least, he tells people he does._

_Strangely, John’s world doesn’t fall back into place the moment Sherlock appears at their table. On the contrary, chaos is swallowing John alive. It’s a mess. One even Sherlock can’t fix and for once, John doesn’t want him to._

~ ~

Mary is happy and John hasn’t a clue why. She should be confused, or at least support him in his anger. But she is smiling and John wants to scream.

He wants to ask why. Why she dares to smile when his life has just crashed, again. Why she seems to enjoy the situation when he wishes he could erase the evening entirely. He wants to punch and, god, he wants a drink. Because Sherlock fucking Holmes is alive and John can’t calm his pounding heart. 

John wants to stop the cab and get out. He wants to run back to him. He wants to hold him, feel his pulse and never let go. Because Sherlock fucking Holmes is alive and John finally can breathe again.

~ ~

“You haven’t gone to see him yet.”

“Who?”

“Don’t do this. You know perfectly well who.”

“...”

“So, why haven’t you?”

“I don’t need to see him.”

“You don’t want to know what he did during the last two years?”

“I don’t bloody care what he did for the last two fucking years.”

“Sure about that?”

“Mary, can we talk about something else?”

~ ~

Sherlock is still just as beautiful as John remembered.

He walks in front of him and talks too fast for John to follow. It hasn’t taken long for John to come back to him, and despite his approaching wedding, John spent most his time with Sherlock again. Mary fusses but she knows they are working an important case so she lets him go. The truth is, nothing could have held John back. 

Because Sherlock is here and he’s beautiful and he’s looking at John. _I missed him, so much. So much._

~ ~

“I heard you.”

~ ~

John would have died with Sherlock in this abandoned train carriage without a second thought. At least, this time, Sherlock wasn’t leaving him behind.

~ ~

John wakes up panting, covered in sweat and rock hard. He instantly looks beside him but Mary’s gone. She must have said something yesterday but John can’t bring himself to care.

He rolls to his side, his hand already closing around his erection. It’s been months since he last dreamed of Sherlock. But the genius’s return must have woken up all of John’s old fantasies and he moans loudly as he remembers the way Sherlock had kissed him in his dream. 

He strokes himself quickly, efficiently. He doesn’t try to think of somebody else, he knows perfectly well it won’t work. He chases his orgasm, imagining Sherlock’s lips on his skin, Sherlock’s hands on his arse, Sherlock’s tight heat around his cock. 

He comes in his pajamas bottoms, Sherlock’s name on his lips. 

John buries his head in his pillow and proceeds to ignore the knot in his throat.

~ ~

The wedding is nice. People keep saying so; John thinks it must be true. In all honesty, his mind is completely elsewhere. He dances with Mary, laughs with their guests and drinks his champagne. He smiles, listens to old memories and holds Mary’s hand in his.

He doesn’t search for Sherlock. Surely he must be gone by now and John understands. He has done so much more already than John had thought he would. Sherlock had been nothing but helpful the past few weeks and John had tried, really tried, to accept this new version of their relationship. 

He’ll wait a day or two and contact Sherlock. Maybe they can talk about his speech then. Maybe.

~ ~

But then a month passes and John doesn’t hear from Sherlock at all.

He makes sure to have his phone on him all day and checks his messages every time he has a break. He sits at home, watching TV and tries not to imagine Sherlock running after danger without him, not needing him by his side anymore. John goes to work and waits for Sherlock to burst out of nowhere. He tries not to be too disappointed when he goes back home after another boring day. 

Mary isn’t saying anything. It is as if Sherlock isn’t part of their life at all. 

John is not sure how long he can carry on like this.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him means dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Months later, as John watches Sherlock jump, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all. But in the end, John survives, or at least, he tells people he does._

_Strangely, John’s world doesn’t fall back into place the moment Sherlock appears at their table. On the contrary, chaos is swallowing John alive. It’s a mess. One even Sherlock can’t fix and for once, John doesn’t want him to, and if Mary’s betrayal feels like a punch in the stomach, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock dying in his arms._

~ ~

It’s not the month of silence.

It’s not that he found Sherlock in that place.

It’s not that the drug test was positive. 

It’s knowing that Sherlock didn’t even try to reach for him.

~ ~

“You're trying to put me off?”

“I'm trying to recruit you.”

~ ~

In the two years of Sherlock’s absence, John had almost forgot what it felt to be jealous.

Of course, it doesn’t take long for Sherlock to remind him.

~ ~

In a way, John shouldn't be surprised to realise his life can dramatically change overnight.

Years of living with Sherlock taught him to never expect normality. John had loved it, the constant surprise. He craved the days when everything went south. That was when he felt important, when he felt as if he had found his place next to Sherlock.

But tonight Sherlock had bled out in his arms, died, and then came back. He had lied, and then left clues for John to come find out the truth. Sherlock had stood there, revealing to John his wife’s lies and even tried to defend her. 

Yes, John’s life had changed overnight. Once again. Strangely enough, John never felt so relieved.

~ ~

“I don’t like this plan.”

“John, it’s the only one that will work.”

“She’s a professional killer, Sherlock! She will know I’m lying right away.”

“I trust you to fool her.”

“I can’t.”

“John. I would have chosen any other plan gladly too. But this one is perfect in every detail. Mary will fall for it, I’m certain.” 

“Sherlock, I…”

“I need you to trust me. This time next week, Mary will be out of your life.”

“Our life.”

“Right. Our life.”

~ ~

Of course Sherlock’s plan works perfectly.

Mary doesn’t doubt Moriarty’s return for a second, and less than a day later, she’s back out carrying a gun and shooting at people. John had hoped for a second, maybe less, that the baby was real. He had dreamed of a life he now will never have. 

But he turns and looks at Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the CCTV screen and biting at his lower lip. He’s worried, even stressed John might add. If everything goes right, Mary will be arrested in less than two minutes. 

Two minutes. 

Two minutes and John’s life goes back to normal.

~ ~

As he watches Mycroft take Mary away, John can’t help but wonder if he will miss her.

He spent almost two years of his life with this woman, and in a way, he had loved her. She had been here when he had needed someone, and John had found comfort in her arms. She even had been the mother of his child for a brief moment. 

John glances at Sherlock, silent next to him.

Yes, he had loved her but he won’t miss her. He is going to forget about AGRA entirely.

He is going to pack his stuff and go back to where belongs.

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him means dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Months later, as John watches Sherlock jump, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all. But in the end, John survives, or at least, he tells people he does._

_Strangely, John’s world doesn’t fall back into place the moment Sherlock appears at their table. On the contrary, chaos is swallowing John alive. It’s a mess. One even Sherlock can’t fix and for once, John doesn’t want him to, and if Mary’s betrayal feels like a punch in the stomach, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock dying in his arms._

_It’s not perfect, going back to live with Sherlock. It’s far from it and John knows exactly why. But this time John won’t let his chance passe._

_He loves this man. He has loved him for a very long time now and John plans on doing so for years and years to come._

~ ~

John kisses Sherlock for the first time two weeks after he’s back at 221B.

He waits for Sherlock to finish an experiment and cooks diner for the both of them. He sits, facing Sherlock, and listens as he explains the details of their latest case. John can’t seem to stop smiling and Sherlock mirrors him. 

Sherlock helps him with the dishes, both of them standing too close to the other. 

When John raises himself high enough to brush his lips against Sherlock’s, they are standing between their chairs. The living room is quiet but for their quickening breathing and John steps closer. Sherlock pushes himself further against John. They kiss, silently, slowly. 

They kiss.

~ ~

“You have to know Sherlock. You have to…”

“I know John.”

“All this time, I…”

“Yes. I too.”

~ ~

John wishes he was talented enough to write down Sherlock’s beauty in this very moment.

But he doesn’t know how to describe the way Sherlock’s body moves under him, lean and hypnotizing. He doesn’t know how to explain the warmth expanding in his chest and the burning desire in his abdomen. So he watches, eyes wide open as Sherlock throws his head back, exposing his pale and bare neck, and John wishes he knew how to put into words the visceral want to leave a mark there. 

“John.”

It’s weak, a whispered moan hanging between them and John never felt so powerful. He slides deeper into Sherlock’s body. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried inside him, and then he lowers himself to kiss the offered lips. He ravishes Sherlock’s mouth, leaving the man no time to breathe. When they part, it’s only because John had pulled back a little and Sherlock cries out, loud, as he thrusts back in. John cups Sherlock's face with both hands, thrusting in slowly, Sherlock’s eyes locked on his.

“Sherlock, Sherlock.”

In this very moment, John’s world never felt more right.

~ ~

“I’m going out.”

John slams the front door as he goes out and he hopes Sherlock heard it. He fastens his coat and walks to the nearest park. He’s boiling with anger. He can’t believe Sherlock actually tried to take this case without informing him. John had thought they had agreed to stop hiding things from each other. He had thought Sherlock had understood what it meant. Obviously, he had been wrong. 

He stays in the park two long hours, walking without any purpose but to calm down. He checks his phone as he takes the road back to 221B. Nothing. Sherlock must still be angry then, probably sulking. John smiles. He can easily picture him on the sofa, his back to the living room and his knees brought back against his chest. 

As expected, John finds him in this exact same position when he arrives home. He hangs his coat and goes to make tea. When he sits in his chair, Sherlock still hasn’t said a word. But John can see the tension in his back. He waits for a moment, taking a sip of his tea. It isn’t the first time they fought, and it won’t be the last. There will be days when John will have enough of Sherlock’s mess. There will be days when Sherlock will be bored to death and shout at John just because he’s here. There will be days when they can’t stand each other, when they both need some time apart. 

If John knows and accepts this, he realises now that he needs to make sure Sherlock knows that he will always come back after one of these days. So he stands up, goes to lie behind Sherlock and holds him close as he buries his head in the mop of dark curls before him. 

“I love you. I love you.”

~ ~

Sometimes, John realises he could have had all of this years ago.

He watches as Sherlock comes to lie on the sofa, resting his head on John’s lap and turning to face the TV. John slides his fingers through his hair, appreciating the way Sherlock seems to relax under his touch. He’s not paying attention to the show anymore and surely Sherlock isn’t either. He must going through some old case. He usually likes to snuggle next to him when he does. 

If only John had known. 

“John, you’re thinking too loudly.”

“Sorry, love.”

“Stop worrying about what might or might not have happened sooner. It won’t change things.”

John smiles. “Alright, I’ll stop.”

~ ~

“Sherlock, please tell me you didn’t use our diner for your experiment.”

“What diner?”

“The one I prepared for our guest who should arrive in less than ten minutes and probably expects to eat something nice.”

“Oh, that diner. Yes, I did.”

“Sherlock!”

“It was a bad idea anyway. Now you only need to cancel.”

“You realise I organised this diner for YOUR birthday.”

“And as I told you so many times, I don’t want a diner for my birthday.”

“That’s not a reason to ruin everything in the last minute.”

“I’m not ruining anything, I’m fixing it.”

“Oh god, you’re insufferable sometime. I can’t believe I actually want to marry y-”

“...”

“...”

“You want to what?”

“Forget it.”

“John.”

“I need to go grab some takeaway. I’m sure our guest won’t mind Chinese.”

“John.”

“Sherlock… Can you wait for tonight? It was supposed to be tonight.”

“Alright. Tonight.”

~ ~

“Oh fuck, Sherlock!”

John locks his legs tighter around Sherlock’s waist and throws his head against the wall. He moans his lover’s name again as Sherlock hits his prostate, his fingers digging into John’s hips, his pace already losing his rhythm. 

“Fuck, fuck.”

Sherlock is painting against his neck, hot and sweaty. They haven't even taken the time to remove the rest their clothes, only John’s pants and jeans are discarded on the floor, and John never felt more aroused, his cock growing harder between them. Sherlock had jumped on him the second the door was closed, removing John’s clothes quickly before pushing him against the nearest wall. 

“John.”

Sherlock licks at John’s shoulder blade, then bites down slowly. One of his hand lets go of John’s hip only to intertwine their fingers, positioning their now joined hands above John's head. He snaps his hips, once, twice and John feels himself getting closer and closer. 

“Sherlock, I need…”

He doesn't have the time to finish, Sherlock closing his free hand around his cock and John fears for a second they will fall to the floor. But he holds tight and cries out as Sherlock continues to drive into him with force. 

It's glorious. Absolutely brilliant. But most importantly, John can feel the silver of Sherlock’s wedding ring against his fingers.

~ ~

Sherlock : That first night, when you were leaning against the wall and giggling. I hoped I hadn’t texted Angelo just so I could keep listening to you.

John : At the pool, when Moriarty left after his phone call. That was all I could think of.

Sherlock : One sunday morning, when you came downstairs and forgot to put your shirt on.

John : In front of Irene Adler, just to make sure she knew your were mine.

Sherlock : That evening, as we were running, handcuffed together. I stopped myself countless times.

John : That evening, as we were running, handcuffed together. I wish you hadn’t.

Sherlock : Every minute of every day while as I away.

John : After I punched you. All I wanted was to run back to you.

Sherlock : In the quiet evenings, when you were checking my bandages and your hands felt warm against my skin.

John : The moment my stuff was back in my room.

Sherlock : Right now.

John smiles, leans in and kisses him.

~ ~

John turns to face Sherlock, his body warm where it is resting next to his under the covers. He slides his arms around Sherlock’s torso, tucks his head just under his chin and breathes in Sherlock’s natural scent. He closes his eyes again, the room silent and Sherlock’s chest rising against his slowly. John lets his lips brush Sherlock’s skin, but makes sure not wake him. They need the rest. He exhales, scoots a little bit closer and falls back asleep.

~ ~

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“We are old.”

“No we’re not!”

“Yes, we are. We both have glasses and grey hair. Your limp is coming back and will probably need a cane soon. My hands are shaking when I spend too much time on an experiment. We are old, it's a fact.”

“Alright, I guess you're right.”

“You don't care?”

“Sherlock, I don't mind being old. Not at all.”

“It's tedious!”

“Maybe to you. But I've found it rather pleasing growing old with you, and I can't wait to spend the next years of my life getting even older right by your side.”

~ ~

  
_The moment he wakes up with a bandage around his shoulder and a throbbing pain in his leg, John realises he had the chance to live the life he had always wanted, and it is now over. John can’t exactly explain why, but meeting Sherlock Holmes feels like being shot all over again._

_Living with him means dealing with a tornado every second of every day. But Sherlock cures his leg, cures his dreams, cures him. And slowly, between chases around London and quiet evenings by the fire, John falls in love._

_It feels like falling from a chair._

_Months later, as John watches Sherlock jump, he wishes he’d bled out in the desert after all. But in the end, John survives, or at least, he tells people he does._

_Strangely, John’s world doesn’t fall back into place the moment Sherlock appears at their table. On the contrary, chaos is swallowing John alive. It’s a mess. One even Sherlock can’t fix and for once, John doesn’t want him to, and if Mary’s betrayal feels like a punch in the stomach, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock dying in his arms._

_It’s not perfect, going back to live with Sherlock. It’s far from it and John knows exactly why. But this time John won’t let his chance passe._

_He loves this man. He has loved him for a very long time now and John plans on doing so for years and years to come._

_Decades later, John sits in their garden, the sun high in the sky and a light breeze refreshing the air. He puts his book on the table, crosses his legs and searches for Sherlock near the hive. He smiles as he sees him sucking at his finger and staring down angrily at the bees._

_John sits back comfortably and rests his hands on his lap._

_He looks at him._

_He looks at him._

_He looks at him._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comment are very appreciated :)
> 
> The format of this fiction was inspired by the fiction Alternate endings by cathedral_carver.  
> The ending was inspired by the book Un long dimanche de fiançailles by Sébastien Japrisot.


End file.
